deus ex machina

long before it was the title of a sci-fi psychological thriller, the term was coined by the ancient greeks. literally translated to “god from the machine,” it refers to a god introduced into a play to resolve the entanglements of the plot.

today it’s an improbable plot twist used to clear up the conflicts encountered by the main character. think of the cavalry in classic westerns swooping in to save the damsel in distress, tied to the train tracks and seconds away from being flattened by a speeding freight train. or the magic kiss from prince charming that finally awakens snow white from her poison-apple-induced slumber.

as human beings, we’re wired to believe in the magic bullet, the ticket to a tidy resolution to whatever ails us. “if only i had…that life, that job, that house, that family, that award, that (fill in the blank) to make it all better.”

and fairy tales and movies and shiny stories tied up in bows only perpetuate our belief in that cavalry coming—sometime, somehow—to save the day. the myth leaves us in a strange place… living, yet waiting…to find true happiness or reach our full potential. 

there is a great passage in the classic dr. seuss story, “oh the places you’ll go,” that sums it up perfectly. “The Waiting Place…” 

but that thing that you’re waiting for may never come. or once you’ve got it, there will be a whole heaping helping of more where that came from.

imagine all the things you may have missed—in those moments of waiting, of longing, of spinning or distraction—forward and forward, before realizing what you actually had in the moment.

as heroes of our own story, we are desperate to map out the big story arc, to understand how to shed our baggage and connect all the dots toward a satisfying resolution. but setting our sights solely on the epic climax leaves countless seconds, minutes, hours, days, even lifetimes, on the table: overlooked, forgotten, perhaps half-lived or never fully appreciated.

what if we shifted our whole perception of the narrative?

instead of waiting for that grand epiphany, perhaps the answer lies in all the experiences along the way—of beauty, truth, connection, trying and failing and picking ourselves back up again. instead of the big story arc, it’s the small, pure moments that define us, inspire us, heal us, and make us who we are.

maybe the driving force en route to save the day isn’t the chiseled-chin, bulging bicepped superman, but underdog, the unlikely anti-hero, the symbol of forgotten moments and the little things in life that are pure, yet incredibly powerful.

and that “god from the machine”? maybe it’s not somewhere out there at all—but much closer to home—inside ourselves and how we choose to approach every single day.  

#worthit

it’s one of my favorite mantras. one that i whisper to myself as i justify pulling the trigger on a shiny new pair of shoes. or egging my friends on when they debate eating their healthy, packed lunch or going out for a splurge. i say it half jokingly, and half-serious—because even though i probably don’t need that last glass of bubbles, i certainly feel like a million bucks (and hence am #worthit at the time) to soak up some pampering, though i pay the price in a high-roller hangover the next morning.

the truth is we all need—and deserve—a little indulgence here or there to help us get through the drudgery. but sadly, if you’re a mom, those moments of “me time” are few and far between.

i do my best to pull it together: look presentable, accessorize, prioritize, but most often it feels like each day is a whirling mass of semi-organized chaos. get up. get dressed. feed kids. fill out forms. pack lunch. track down hats, gloves, mittens, boots. go to work. hop on train. pick up one. hop in car. pick up 2. back home. homework. make dinner. eat. bath. brush teeth. tuck in. lather. rinse. repeat.

the daily grind is a far cry from the bump ‘n’ grind of life before kids. i think about all the “stuff” i used to buy. all the time i used to have. all the friends i used to see. all the dates we used to make. and try to cobble together bits and pieces of those aspects of life that made me whole.

i have to admit: sometimes the constant struggle to balance it all gets to me. i lose it. when the dervishes are whirling, and the eyes are rolling, and the shoes are stomping, and the bickering turns into full-on brawls, i don’t hesitate to play the tried and true parent card. given my shoe selection, they most likely wouldn’t buy the “walking barefoot for miles to school” shtick that my mom and dad used on us, but the whole lecture about sacrifice and gratitude…please. “everything we do is for YOU.” (queue up bryan adams…)

to say it’s being dramatic is simply inaccurate. every word of the speech is true…but it can also feel like the reverse is true. as a parent, does prioritizing yourself always come last?

one night i was sitting on the couch and i’d just hit a wall. i was done. dishes in the sink. laundry in the basket. to-do list left untouched from the day before. from the distance, i could hear the wild elephants approaching.

“keep it down guys! it’s too loud for the neighbors!” ugh. “FML.”

the stomping got louder.

“MOMMY!!”

“WHAT?” in my mind, i was readying my response, preparing to pull from the repertoire of phrases uttered infinitely throughout the day. “you’re 8, he’s 3. give it back; we don’t take other people’s things. if you don’t share, you both are going to lose it. because i said so, that’s why…”

“we have a surprise for you!” an outburst of giggles. hands behind their backs. grinning from ear to ear. before i could even respond, they threw their hands open. “it’s you, mommy!”

in the midst of playing, they made a little lego figure of me.

“look she has blue pants just like you! blue is your favorite color, right mommy? and see, she has a big bracelet and long hair that’s in a ponytail. she even has a white purse, mommy. that’s YOU!”

their uncanny attention to accessory details aside(!), i thought “wow…that’s me”… and i’m also a chair when the little one climbs into my lap. and a measuring stick for the biggie to compare himself to. and a hand holder. and a boo boo blower. and a pasta maker. and a chocolate sharer. and a “fancy shoe” wearer.

they watch. they pay attention. they know your likes and dislikes. they shape you. and they are walking, breathing little pieces of you.

no one’s identity is fixed. and your sense of meaning inevitably changes as you move from one stage in life to the next. motherhood is not ALL of me. but it is a huge, indelible part. though sometimes i miss the freedom, simplicity, and yes, even selfishness of those early days, in an instant, i’m reminded why my broken nails, bloodshot eyes, chipped plates, crayon on walls, never-enough-time-for-anything existence is completely, undeniably #worthit.

the grand scheme

do you ever wonder what the hec it is? what’s the end game? why is this happening? how did it all get so complicated? why, the older you get, do the answers become more elusive rather than less?

most of us were raised on the notion that life is a perfectly linear path: study hard, get a degree, get a job in a relevant field, at some point along the way meet a partner, settle down, buy a dog, perhaps build a family. and then you've got it made.

but we all know that reality is far messier. neatly plotted points on a line? yeah right. nope, life is fluid. it’s circuitous. often, when you’re immersed in it, it just plain doesn’t make sense.

no one would fault you if you chalked it all up to random acts of crappiness. particles in the universe, protons and neutrons, coming together to assemble the perfect shit sandwich. the rain on your parade that strikes just when you think you’ve hit your stride.

…or you could trust that there is an ultimate plan.

some method to all the madness. some reason, some lesson, some purpose, that doesn’t crystallize until time and distance bring the answer into view.

i guess i’m somewhere in the middle. we’re all trying to make sense of the circus. the swirl of people and circumstances, tragedies and triumphs, that make up our own personal narrative. perhaps instead of grasping for the big picture—which may or may never reveal itself—we should simply strive for a balanced perspective. one distorted or ugly situation does not the entire story tell. there are just as many, if not more, strokes that are brilliant, shiny, beautiful.

selling crazy

being a blog about inspiration, sea glass focuses on stories and anecdotes from my life that i hope people can relate to. the juggling act. beauty. moments of epiphany. but recently i got a comment of a different flavor from a friend that inspired this post:

“what pisses you off?”

it made me smile when the note came through. if you’ve read a few posts, you might be tempted to believe that it’s all rainbows and unicorns for me. that i flit about sniffing flowers and shooting photos of fluffy puppies while, in many ways, the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

it reminded me of this classic clip from the jack nicholson movie, “as good as it gets”:

i wonder sometimes if i am like the woman, knocking on the door with some trite saying like "it was meant to be" or "the world is such a wonderful place"…

though i do generally believe that the glass is half full, let's be clear. i’m far from an idealist. there’s a lot that is busted in the world. i started to rattle off the rants in my head: greedy bastards effing up our economy, psycho tea baggers spewing hate, assholes rising to the top while hard-working people struggle to get through…”

as i was running through the list, i had a strange feeling of déjà vu. i dove back into the sea glass archives and looked at my very first post. here’s what it said:

2009 was a rough year. from january thru december, i felt inundated by bad news. at the macro level, i was disgusted by the modern day robber barons pillaging our economy. hearing about how virtually every industry—from banking to healthcare to our food system—was rife with corruption, mismanagement, corporate greed and public deception. on the personal front, diagnoses of cancer for family members and close friends, job losses, financial woes, construction problems with our home, and the loss of a twin that i carried for 27 weeks, were the flavors du jour. the morbid headlines and personal tragedies left me with an overwhelming feeling: futility.

not exactly butterflies and lollipops…and here we are more than a year later and many of the warts persist…and always will. greed, illness, unfair BS that doesn’t make sense.

we don’t live in a technicolor, stepford world where things are perfect and good prevails.

but i still believe that what we do have is moments and people that remind us that it’s not all bad. that we can be better. as jack's character proves, even the most jaded of cynics can see the light.

so it’s full circle back to that original post: there's a lot that is ugly, but far more, in everyday life is beautiful. inspired even. you just have to open your eyes to it.

bruised, not broken

as we all do during the holidays, i’ve spent spare moments recently contemplating the many things I am thankful for. the usual suspects come to mind—my kids, my husband, great friends, a good job, a roof over my head. and i’ve always been sincerely thankful for these things.

but this year was a little different. it’s been a rough one.

i lost about 2 months out of the year with a devastating case of meningitis. following a wonderful stretch of birthdays, time spent with loved ones, weekends of soul-quenching rituals like working out and eating out, and a visit to one of our favorite spots in michigan fishing, dune climbing, cuddling golden retriever puppies and eating homemade pies, it struck out of nowhere.

raging fevers. near-epileptic shakes. head aches. body aches. and a bout of disorientation/dementia (“scrambled eggs” as my husband called it) that was truly frightening. i spent six days in the ICU. poked. prodded. stuck with needles. spinal-tapped. MRI-ed. catheterized. anesthetized. mortified.

truly shaken. to the core. beyond the physical pain of the experience, which included lingering after-effects that stayed long after i got discharged (think weeks of teeth-chattering shakes, a shrunken version of myself, soft-spoken and weak), i was emotionally scarred. as a constant reminder, i still have the marks from all the lines and IV’s that resulted from the blood letting.

needless to say, the trauma got me into a bit of a funk. i haven’t posted to sea glass in several months. i’ve been exhausted, frantically paddling to keep up with all of life’s demands, feeling frustrated by the things that have fallen by the wayside. a couple times, i’ve sat in front of my computer and felt…nothing. uninspired. just trying to get by.

it was probably the first time i ever experienced first-hand the true fragility of life: the fact that, at any moment, i could lose everything. my health. my intellect. my ability to write without shaking like a 90-year-old granny. my ability to be a mother to my children. a wife to my husband. a sister to my brother. a daughter to my parents. a friend to all my dear, dear friends.

my inner dialogue covered all the typical existential questions that people ask when they find out they’re seriously ill. why me? how the hell did this happen? what could’ve been done to prevent it? is insurance going to cover this? did i suffer permanent damage? will my body pick up where the meds left off so I can go on with my life?

somehow, slowly, i got through it. and now as i sit here, (hopefully) fully healed and healthy, it seems self-indulgent to linger on the experience. there are so many people with much more serious diagnoses to deal with and long, painful roads ahead of them. but my glimpse into their world put everything in perspective.

in the darkest times, there is always light.

it’s hard to think of laying in a hospital bed fearing for your health and the prospect of losing everything as a good thing. but odds are the things you fear losing the most are the things that help you get through. the sheer randomness of me contracting this virus out of nowhere was matched by the randomness that my family just happened to be in town visiting for a week. instead of floundering through this alone, they were there: to love, to advise, to clean, to cook, to care for the kids. flowers and concerned calls flooded in. though I was scared, i never felt more loved. and lucky.

bruised, not broken.

sometimes you go through periods in life where you’re just in the zone. life is good. laughter is abundant. all is right with the universe. and then other times, you hit a wall. you’re knocked off your game. you’re bruised, battered, exhausted from fighting. getting sick like this was a wake up call. a reminder that you’re not invincible. you’re not immune. you’re not as strong as you thought you were…but in pushing through it you realize, you’re also not as weak.

this, too, shall pass.

when you look back on the hard times, it’s not about going through them, but getting past them. somehow you survived. somehow you pushed on. you endured … and you will again.

hearts and stars

if you grew up in any US suburb (or even city for that matter), you'd recognize the sound from a mile away. at first it's somewhat muffled--almost like church chimes in the distance...but then it gets closer. bells that sing out a carnival tune. and every kid within earshot scrambles to collect as many coins as they can find.

can you venture a guess what i'm referring to? it's the ice cream man of course! no matter what game we were playing, who was winning or losing, we'd all drop everything for the ice cream man. if we were lucky enough to cobble enough money for two treats, i was ready: a scooter crunch pie (chocolate) and a screwball. note: i never particularly liked the orange sherbert-y flavored cone...but for some reason, getting to the bottom and finding out what color the screwball was, popping it into my mouth, checking to see what color it changed into--that was, for the moment, the reason for my existence.

the ice cream truck spread magic around the neighborhood. it's one of those childhood experiences that is sweet, pure and filled with happiness.

it reminds me of a saying my son used to say. at around 3 or 4, when he professed his love for me, he would squeeze me and say "i love you with hearts and stars!" to him, it was like the icing on the cake, the cherry on top, the x factor that magnified his love exponentially. they were his favorite things--pure, simple, filled with happiness.

fast forward to today. there's an interesting phenomenon cropping up in chicago, and likely many other major cities. haute food trucks filled with gourmet treats, trolling neighborhoods and even downtown to sell their goodies.

the first i heard of it was in my office.  "there's a cupcake truck making its way down michigan ave! it'll be in front of our building at 11am."

the drones awoke from their slumber. we all got a kick to our steps, rummaging through our wallets and purses to find some dollar bills.

truth be told, flirty cupcakes didn't deliver on the promise and the expectations, set up long ago by the ice cream man. their cupcakes were overpriced and the frosting pasty.

nonetheless, i was still in awe at our collective reaction to the concept: edible goodies delivered on a truck. it was like the second coming of the ice cream man and we, grown adults, swooned. now there are even more who are jumping on the bandwagon. there's the gastro-wagon, serving wild boar belly, blue cheese, date jam, romeseco sauce and onion sammies. and the happy bodega, a corner store on wheels selling ham and gruyere on crusty baguettes, fresh flowers and the morning paper.

the cynic in me looks at today's economy and raises an eyebrow. "ok, so you're schlepping cupcakes for $5 a pop from a truck with no overhead. how convenient."

but the optimist in me retorts back. maybe these folks are just that in tune with the magic that happens when you're rolling down the road doling out happiness in the form of cupcakes and sandwiches, flowers and dessert...hearts and stars.

hands on a miracle

having kids is one of the most earth-shattering, life-altering, turn-your-world-upside-down kind of experiences. it inspires this crazy dichotomy of feelings and emotions: utter amazement from something so innate, natural. intense pride while being humbled every single day. going from worrying about everything to caring about nothing else. having blinding hope for these little peoples' future, yet a longing to hold onto each precious moment now.

when dave grohl of the foo fighters had his first kid, he penned this song in honor of violet, his "miracle." i love the ultimate contrast of this indie rocker with a penchant for gutteral screams and spitting (we've seen them twice, and yes, i do swoon when he does both) singing poetically about how this baby changed his entire perspective on life.

"miracle"

crazy, but i believe this time

begging for sweet relief

a blessing in disguise

i'm dying behind these tired eyes

i've been losing sleep

please come to me tonight

hands on a miracle

i got my hands on a miracle

believe it or not

hands on a miracle

and there ain't no way, that you take it away

everything that we've survived

it's gonna be alright

just lucky we're alive

got no vision

i've been blind

searching everywhere

you're right there in my sight

hands on a miracle

i got my hands on a miracle

believe it or not

hands on a miracle

and there ain't no way, that you take it away

hands on a miracle

i got my hands on a miracle

believe it or not

hands on a miracle

i got my, hands on a miracle

and there ain't no way, that you take it away

take it away

kids.

reflections of us. yet different. unique. individuals. brilliant. silly. sponges. chatty. pure. sweetness. full of life. and light.

mine. to mold. to have. to hold. to fashion. to teach. to learn from. to squeeze. to grab onto. to pick up. to let go of...and to never let go.

artists of being alive

a card given to me by my brother over 10 years ago. an artifact that embodies the essence of this blog. a set of words to live by.

enduring bonds

one of my favorite things about traveling is discovering the quiet corners, off the beaten path, away from the tourist traps—where you can witness authentic moments, slices of daily life unfolding.

i took this photo in florence, in a sleepy little nook off of piazza santo spirito. it was one of those shots that you couldn't have staged any better: four little old ladies, sitting on a bench kibitzing about life, catching up on the neighborhood gossip, watching passers-by, all while enveloped by the shadow of a huge tree hanging overhead. the branches emanated from this core, a nucleus of friends who i was certain had sat in that very spot an infinite number of times before, doing the very same thing.

here, in italy, thousands of miles away from home, i was reminded of my own friends. sure, these "nonnas" had seen a few more years than us, but their gestures, their comfort with each other, they way they finished each other's sentences and laughed with hilarity at each other's stories—all of that was intimately familiar.

it occurred to me that some things are universal. though we all have our unique stories and experiences, we also have (hopefully) a core set of true friends and family, who aren't just bound to us by blood or obligation (those connections have most likely fallen off long ago), but who we truly cherish. who know our true selves, without pomp or pretense. to whom we can tell our deepest fears. who we know won't judge us, but who will also be straight, and call bullshit to keep us honest. who share memories that never get old in the retelling. who will always have our back, and who know you've got theirs.

friendships like these are priceless. like the image above, they ground us, anchor us, support us, inspire us. they make us laugh out loud on a regular clip (you know who you are, ladies!). they help us make sense of the madness. remind us that we are not alone. in short, they help us live life to the fullest.

as i get older, i find that the old adage is true: the more things change in life, the more some things stay the same. the bond of true friendship is one of the few things that endures.

a single moment?

in advertising, you meet a lot of colorful characters. the brooding creative. the militant project manager. the awkward but lovable techie. the self-entitled intern.

and then there's joseph. the overachieving eccentric, resident enfant terrible and also a good friend. he's utterly impatient with the status quo, yet unlike many, arms himself with laundry lists of ways to make things better. joseph and i worked on countless projects together, from a cayman islands website to the branding for a chicago skyscraper, with a little oprah and motorola sprinkled in along the way.

before major presentations, he could often be found "scrambling" at his desk, leg shaking as he put the finishing touches on the 50-pages of documentation he'd have to present. once saved, he'd click print and send a couple trees off to meet their maker at the printer that was steps away from his desk. as he stood up to collect his masterpieces and prepare to impress the client with his thinking (and his pseudo-British accent that would make Madonna proud), he'd often mutter a question that would always strike a chord—or rather more like a nerve—within me.

"do you ever feel like your life is leading to a single moment?"

it was a rhetorical question (he was usually whisking his way out the door by the time he uttered the last word), but it summed up the importance of the moment: the potpourri of anxiety, excitement, simultaneous pride and insecurity of putting yourself out on a limb...and not knowing what the outcome would be. every single time, he acted as if this moment, this was the big presentation that would finally catapult him to greatness (whatever that meant).

in agency life, those moments happen to be more the rule than the exception. but every time he'd ask the question, my thoughts would go to life. my life. in roughly a minute of contemplation, it would all rush over me, scenes of my life in fast forward.

"is my life leading to a single moment?" and if so, "what was it?"

falling in love? buying a house? having kids? landing my dream job? buying a bigger house? winning the lottery so i can quit my job and travel the world?

do you ever find that when you finally achieve the "moment" that you've been striving for, there's another one waiting right around the corner?...and another one?...and another one?

we've been brought up to believe that life is linear, a collection of milestones that assemble perfectly on the path toward that "one defining moment." but i believe it's a fallacy. a quixotic exercise in "tilting at windmills."

the truth is there's no such thing as a "single" defining moment. life is messy and chaotic and your path, like mine, has probably taken many a detour along the way. the key is embracing the now. and not some ambiguous, unattainable moment in your distant future.

appreciating the little moments as well as the big. the small victories and knock-it-out-of-the-park successes. the ones that propel us forward, whether in work, in our relationships or in life. not moving toward a finite "end" but rather a continual path toward self-discovery.

there's a wonderful piece by alan watts called "music and life" that equates life to a symphony. it's not about the build-up to the dramatic climax at the end. rather it's about something much more profound:

"...we thought of life by analogy with a journey, with a pilgrimage which had a serious purpose at the end. the thing was to get to that end—success or whatever it is, or maybe heaven when you're dead. but we missed the point the whole way along. it was a musical thing and you were so supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played."